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2013-02-26 Test of Conviction
It's late in the evening, simply because these sorts of things are always so much better after the sun has set. That, and Olena also knows it's the best time to catch the Russian thugs that act as guards over the captives with their pants down -- both literally and figuratively. The house that acts as the mobsters' headquarters, in this particular case, isn't so much a house as it is a low-rise apartment building with an unusual level of security for such a run-down looking place. The neighbourhood is such that the bars on the lower windows aren't remarkable. But, the well-oiled locks and sturdy steel doors certainly are. Garbbed head-to-toe in black (because it shows blood less and blends into the shadows better), the young, Ukrainian archer grips her new bow in a loose, relaxed hand, an impressive quiver of arrows slung across her back. "This is it," she tells her elder companion," speaking easily in her native tongue (what a relief!). "The bastards are in there. Before I left, I know there were two at each entrance and at least a couple at ends of hallways. But, I can almost guarantee you some of them aren't at their posts." Which doesn't mean they're not in the building. Too, she may be wrong. Given her escape, and the house captain's eventual murder, the humans within might have upped security some. Erik, for all his age and silver hair, moves with a certain celerity one wouldn't expect from a senior citizen. His footsteps are quick and silent, and he wears a matte sort of armor that looks to be some kind of custom, ultralight armor. He keeps close with Olena, shadowing her effortlessly, right up to the rear entry door. He holds up a hand for silence, testing the doorknob. Surprisingly, it's unlocked- there's a click of tumblers, and the door swings open on silent hinges. "Lucky day for us," Erik murmurs. He makes a 'after you' gesture, letting the lady archer take point in their little invasion. "Carefully, now," he murmurs almost silently as she passes. Olena inhales a steadying breath before she moves forward. She knows what she has come here to do. The arrows on her back are proof enough of that. And it's not like she hasn't killed before. She has. On the run in the Ukraine, when soldiers attacked, she killed them. The first one was the hardest. After that, it got a little easier, but only because she told herself there was no other choice. It was about survival; it was self-defense. It was kill or be killed. There were no other choices. Every soldier left alive was another hail of bullets waiting to happen. In this case, however, things are a little different. In this case, she'll be the one to fire the first shot. While she still sees it as a matter of survival and even self-defense, it's more than that. To fire the first shot is a greater responsibility. But, again, she has good reason. There are women inside, and some men, who need rescuing. It would be nice to be the rescuer, for once, instead of the one being rescued. She slides an arrow silently from her quiver and steps inside. Clearing the door far enough to let the old man follow her, she has her string drawn, the bow resting against her open palm in classic Olympic fashion as she pulls it back. Heightened senses are unerring, as is her aim. The arrow arcs its way almost silently through the air. The first man is dead before he has a chance to gurgle, his throat pierced. The second is barely turning around as she pulls a second arrow. He's almost a shadow behind Olena, checking doors as she passes them. One room proves full of sleeping thugs- while her back is turned, he makes a gesture, and it is in a moment, it becomes a room full of corpses. He slips on close to her heels, nodding encouragement should she pause in her forward momentum. "Here," he whispers, as they reach the t-section of a hallway. He gestures to the right, taking the lead and moving with an easy surety. He pauses next to a door and touches the doorknob. 'Five', he mouths, tilting his head to the sound of rough voices inside. At her readiness, he puts his hand on the door to swing it open for her to take the attack. The door swings open and Olena steps in, arrow drawn in one fluid movement and released as she plants herself less than a heartbeat later. She does not remain in the same spot for further shots, however, having learned when her only weapon was a Makarov stolen off a soldier's corpse that being a moving target was always the better choice. Again, the four men that still live after her first shot are barely moving as she's pulling back on a second shaft, planting, and releasing. Erik is right behind Olena, moving fluidly. But his priorities are in a different direction. He lets her handle the four seated men- arrowed shaft after shaft slamming home into vital organs with superhuman precision. The older man watches the corners, the sides- and with small gestures, effortlessly kills a man who is drawing a bead on Olena, his own gun suddenly forced to his temple and laying a spray of blood atop the ceiling. The older man- if Olena is observant enough- seems to be giving her just enough space to demonstrate what skill she might have. To see just how determined she is to draw blood in defense of her kin. Olena's focus is sharp and her perceptions keen. She hears the bullet, smells the blood, sees the body collapse, even as she plants final arrow in the last man standing. She can feel the electromagnetic pulses the older man wields like a shiver of ozone or prickle of static electricity over her skin. Having seen his casual display on the rooftop, she doesn't doubt his power, and she can tell he's giving her room to lead the charge. That's okay by her. In the first place, she doesn't truly feel it's the old man's place to take the brunt of the charge, not out of any proprietary sense (i.e. ownership), but more out of a sense of propriety (i.e. what is proper). Ignorant of the true strength of his power, and just how strong and spry he actually is, she actually feels the brunt should fall on her simply because she's younger. That said, she's just as glad his power is such that the chances of a bullet actually making it to her are slim indeed. Her expression, now, is fairly flat, that same blank look she always had when shooting for the gold in competition. Her focus is on the target, on the task. If she feels anything for the lives she's taking, it doesn't show. "There will be more downstairs," she tells her companion quietly, as the last body falls. "That is where they keep us." Her ears rise and fall, her nostrils flair. "I can hear them. Most have already starting their entertainment." Except, of course, for the one or two that might have heard the shot. "But, there are some on their way here." *started "Downstairs, hmm?" Erik peers around the room a bit owlishly, considering, running his fingers across his jaw. His face is cast deep into shadow by a large, medieval-style helmet that only reveals his eyes in a deep T-visor. The ankle-length cloak that seems to hang too heavily to be made of cloth gathers in close. "Brace yourself." He takes a slow breath and makes a controlled gesture with one hand. There's a screaming sound- metal being bent into an unnatural shape- and a pair of stainless steel bars squeal and flatten into perfect discs, their edges gleaming with a diamond edge. He twists his wrists in a different direction, and the twin buzzsaws rip a perfect circle through the air, spiralling down into the floor underneath them- and the entire floor simply drops from underneath the pair, landing them a full ten feet below, in the reinforced basement that had held the young women. And now, as it appears, holds nearly a dozen armed men, some with weapons in hands, and all staring in blank shock at the giant chunk of ceiling that had just fallen directly into the middle of their card game. "Oh my," Erik comments, a bit blandly. Olena swears in genuine surprise as the buzzsaws drop them, and the floor they were standing on, atop the Russian's card game. Her shock lasts only a moment, however, before she settles her gaze on one of the men. "Dorofeyev," she says, smiling as recognition slowly blooms on his features. Her bow comes up and her language shifts to Russian. "I told you I'd be the last thing you see, you degenerate bastard." The arrow has pierced his eye, into his brain, before her words are finished. Presumably, that's enough to throw the rest of the room into chaos. She drops and rolls of the concrete and plaster laden table, slipping just out of the line of immediate fire from the first of the men to react. She plants, draws, and he falls. What follows, then, is a dance of death, the girl trusting the old man to stop those she can't. While she doesn't actually move any faster than any well-trained athlete might, it's her reaction times that set her apart, the fact she's sees the men moving before they do, and knows the trajectory of their bullets even as they're leaving the muzzle of their guns. It's just enough to keep her from getting hit -- sometimes barely, but enough nonetheless. Erik can certainly be relied upon. She's not perfect- she's not Superman. Neither is he, for that matter. But a single bullet doesn't come near him- a single bullet doesn't come near her. One round that would have hit her lower back simply stops, six inches away from her body, as if having struck a solid wall. The blades, being such convenient tools, become employed as horrific weapons of slaughter. Three men, whom she had no chance of dodging- find themselves hemhorraging blood, diamond-edged blades ripping hands from arms. Guns backfire and explode, and he conducts the chaos and disharmony as if a maestro standing at the head of his orchestra. So much blood. The stench of it, of bowels released in death, the ozone of fired weapons and the pulse of electromagnetism fills Olena's senses. It's difficult for her to process, but only because there has been sufficient time -- if only a matter of months -- since her incarceration at Radcha for the stench of that place, its unwashed bodies and the linked scents of death and fear, to leave her body long enough that she is no longer completely inured to such things. She knows how close she comes to death or serious injury on several occasions, but also realizes the older man has her back. Quite literally, in at least the one case. Family is extremely important to Ukrainians. This man is proving himself family to her, willing to risk his life and protect hers in such a fashion. Olena moves toward the door, away from the worst of the slick and grume, and looks back at him. Although it's clear there's bile in the back of her throat at the carnage -- she's no psychopath to take psychotic pleasure in the kill -- there's also steel in her eyes. She will not relent. "Thank you, uncle," she says to him, switching back to Ukrainian. In this case, of course, the term 'uncle' isn't so much a familial term of affection as it is an accepted cultural term of respect toward an older man who is no longer a formal stranger. She is not presuming any unwarranted closeness, nor has her language ceased to contain the usually expected social formality. (I.e. the Ukrainian equivalent to the French singular "vous".) But the job's not quite done, yet. The gunfire and death cries have created a commotion beyond this one room. Erik's eyes crinkle up in a nest of warm crow's feet, despite the horrific blood and carnage surrounding them. Not a speck of blood touches the man, who makes even his slick armor look like a bold, antique fashion statement. "Of course, little one," he says. "Family." As if that one word is a speech in an of itself- and in many ways, perhaps, it is. The commotion carries on in the other room, drawing his cold grey eyes, and he holds a hand for Olena to stay behind him. "Please. This will be... delicate." Erik walks to the door and simply turns the doorknob. The moment he does, a blistering hail of gunfire explodes through the walls, the doorframe, and every round stops three feet in front of him, hovering gently in midair. He swings the door open with a mild ease, peering into the room. Six men- four with machine pistols, their weapons *clacking* into a locked position as they expend their ammunition. Two holding a few weeping girls at gunpoint. "I think those bullets would be better served somewhere else," Erik comments, in a mild tone. The gunmen yell in surprise as their guns swing up and promptly double-tap their confederates from behind, in the heads- and then, with a flick of his wrist, the hundred-odd bullets hovering in midair simply gore the survivors into bloody paste. Erik steps aside polite and invites Olena to precede him through the door. "Are these your friends?" he inquires, still speaking in her native tongue. "'Lena!" One of the girls certainly recognizes Olena, peeking out from beneath the arms she'd flung over her head to protect herself, however needlessly, from the carnage that flew over top of her to destroy the men that held her. "These are them, uncle," Olena responds to Erik, dropping to her knees, her bow laid beside her as she moves to hug them. "Come." she tells them. "I have found a safe place. People like us, who will not let anyone hurt us. We must go." "Very good." Erik looks dispassionately at the girls, though from behind his mask, he would look little more than a grim spectre with glacial blue eyes. It seems he's loathe to reveal his face to anyone but Olena, who seems to have gained some measure of his trust. "We should leave. Now," he says, in English, his tone clipped and measured. He turns and walks out the door, standing guard with his heavy cloak thrown back from broad shoulders. Two more guards burst into the room with weapons in hand- an imperious gesture from the old man sends them flying backwards into the other room, screaming in agony. "Escort them out, Olena. There are... others here I must attend to." He glances obliquely through the shadow of his mask at the brave archer, then with purposeful strides heads back into the heart of the basement area, followed shortly by the sounds of screams, tearing metal, and dying men. Apparently, the grim spectre of vengeance has yet to complete his work in the den of iniquity. Given that Olena knows there are close to 2 dozen captives in that place, yes. There's still work to be done. But, she is also perceptive enough to understand that the older man is telling her that her personal work is done. Though she hesitates for just a moment, she cannot in good conscience abandon these four. Once they're safe, she may consider returning to help finish the job... Then again, given what she's seen so far, he really doesn't need her help. She's not stupid. She can see that. She picks up her bow and slings it over her shoulder, retrieving what arrows she can as she gathers the girls up and leads them back outside to a sheltered spot away from the carnage. Unlike the man, she's not completely blood free. But, she's wearing black. So, for the most part, it's invisible. While Erik completes his bloody work, she takes time to comfort her friends and bring any other mutants the flee the building to join them. The Center's going to get a little fuller, tonight. Category:Logs Category:RPLogs